


Fault

by graywhatsit



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, Hat Films, Plot Twists, drabble based on skype conversation really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4125736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or: Smith thinks Trott's mad at him and Ross just wants to redecorate</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fault

“What do you think about marble?”

Trott gave his friend a look from where he sat, having to crane his head slightly to see the man standing at the wall. “Already told you what I think. Go crazy.”

“Think I already have,” Ross muttered quietly, tapping the wall gently with his fingers. “When we can get some, this place will look great, I’m telling you.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will. What’s with this fixation on fixing up our house?”

“Our neighbors are doing it- have you _seen_ the Joneses place?” The taller of the two raised a hand, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the aforementioned home. “That place is beautiful, and I’m not going to be outdone by two wispy-”

“I get it. Fucking builder, even here.” Apparently, his desire didn’t stay in the games they played.

Somewhat like Smith’s.

“Forgive me for wanting a nice place to live with my two friends.” Ross turned, enough to lean back on the cool, blank wall behind him. “Speaking of, do you know where Smith is? Haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Not many places to go, mate.”

“I _know_ that, but I still haven’t seen him.”

“He’s-” Trott looked around the room, moving to his feet to walk and get a better view, “-right over here. Leave him be.”

There he was, sitting against the wall just like Trott had been. Rather than join the conversation, inane as it was, he’d decided to sit, tapping at his leg with his long fingers, creating a rhythm that truly wasn’t half bad, if he had his guitar.

He’d be normal, if not for the pensive, near-troubled air he kept giving off.

“Sure that’s the best option?”

“Probably.” Trott’s walk back was much slower, his own expression turning more subdued, until he finally slumped against the wall. “Hey, Ross?”

“Hm?”

“You know I’m not angry at him, right? I know it was an accident.”

His friend sighed. “Yeah, I know. The situation, not the person.”

“Yeah.”

“…But I’m not sure he knows. You should tell him that. He’ll beat himself up forever unless you do.”

And none of them wanted that. They hated to see any one of them miserable, for whatever reason, and this was a pretty damn big one.

“Right now?”

“Probably,” Ross echoed his earlier statement. “Before he does something destructive again. We can’t keep patching this place- or _him_ \- up.”

 

He wasn’t _good_ at comfort. He thought this as he made his way back to Smith, very gingerly leaning against the cool wall when he got there, one arm grasping the other. He _wasn’t_ _,_ never had been, but he supposed he had to try. His fault his friend was so upset, he needed to fix it.

“Smith?”

“Hey.” The larger man didn’t look up, but paused in his drumming, showing he’d turned his full attention to his friend.

“Okay?”

“Mm. What’s up?”

Well, he’d started, he had to finish, no matter the awkwardness he felt. “Look, what I said, I didn’t mean. Really, I’m not pissed off at you.”

“Alright.” Smith didn’t quite seem to believe it, but he didn’t say anything further, allowing Trott to continue in his apology of sorts.

“Seriously. I know you didn’t mean to, I know it was an accident and you’d never do something like that on purpose. I’m more upset that-” He paused, seeing the bright light all over again, phantom warmth prickling over and inside his body. Pressing further against the wall helped steady him, but Smith was up in an instant, ready to help.

“Trott?”

“You didn’t mean it and I’m not mad at you. Never. Like Ross said, I’m mad at the situation we’re in. But never you, alright?”

Smith only watched him, meeting his fierce stare, one hand outstretched as if to touch him, but hovering just before he could. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“It’s fine. Besides, I was just cold- you wanted to help, and I guess I did get warm again.” Trott let out a dry huff of laughter, his companion following suit and leaning against the wall next to him.

“Hey, mate?”

“Yeah, Smith?”

One blackened arm reached over, flaking soot onto the cold stone ground below their equally-dark feet. “I wish we were alive again. I miss it, miss actually seeing both of you.”

Trott sighed, though he didn’t actually need to breathe, and took Smith’s now clawlike hand, hearing the clicking and creaking of bone rather than palm touching palm. That ghost of warmth was still there, despite the chill, and he knew both of his friends could feel it too. It had been an accident- Smith flicking the lighter open to make a small fire, hoping to warm his smaller friend. The flame spread so fast, over his sleeve, onto his skin, and soon enough both his friends and the house were an inferno.

And then they woke up in this dank, dark crypt. But at least they were together.

“Yeah. Me too.”


	2. flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: how it all really happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was part of the 30 day drabble thing
> 
> why it's so short and weird tbh

In their half-sleep, the rest of the dead, laid back in their coffins, they sometimes dreamed.

Trott more than anyone else, thought neither of his friends really talked about their own dreams. Maybe they didn’t at all, and they could just rest, like he couldn’t. He envied it, sometimes.

Of course, he didn’t _always_ dream, or if he did, he didn’t remember most of them, just like when he was alive. But there was one recurring dream- a nightmare, really- that always stood out, and always woke him from a (if you’ll excuse the expression) dead sleep.

The smallest of the three ghouls dreamt of his death.

It had been a cold winter day, and he’d been bundled up in layer upon layer, absolutely freezing. England didn’t have the infrastructure to deal with such cold temperatures, meaning little heating, and skinny as he was, he didn’t either.

He’d had more than his fill of warming beverages- honestly, they only made him need to use the bathroom more- and if he put any more layers on, he wouldn’t be able to _move_.

And cramming together on the couch between his two space heaters and friends wasn’t exactly helping.

“Look,” Smith had started, getting up to head for the kitchen, “we have a fireplace, and we have some wood from that pancake video we did. I’ll just get one going and we won’t have a Trottcicle.”

Rather than give some scathing critique on his choice of portmanteau, Trott simply glared at him from over the edge of the jacket currently pulled up to his nose. Ross, ever the mother hen, though he hated to be referred to as such, agreed with Smith’s idea, carefully guiding his cold friend to the floor in front of the fireplace.

In only a few minutes, the tallest of the trio had returned, setting up a pyramid of wood within the sooty walls of the hearth, adding in a little bit of kindling- really just some torn up papers they didn’t really need anymore- around the base.

“Hold on, Trotty. You’ll be warm in no time.” With that, Smith flicked open the lighter, and how right he was. A single spark escaped as a result of the motion, landing right on Trott’s sleeve, catching the dark fabric aflame.

To his credit, he did attempt to put it out, slapping at it with his hand, even rolling as he was always taught to do as a child. Instead, it only spread, burning his hand and spreading the flame over the carpet, up his sleeve. Tugging off the layers was hopeless, as it very quickly ate through sweater after sweater, and-

He was _burning_. Searing, awful pain on his skin, licking at his neck and his arm and eventually the rest of him, catching his hair, and he could smell cooking and burning and oh, how _revolting_ that would be if he could think past screaming for his friends to _help me, please, I’m dying!_

They had their own problems, as the spreading fire over the carpet, hungry for more fuel, spread up their own, less protected bodies. He could only watch in horror and the most agonizing pain he’d ever felt as their entire lives, their home, his _best friends_ were caught in an inferno, until- perhaps mercifully- his eyes were gone and everything went dark.

He’d wake from such a dream still feeling that pain, phantom now, spreading over his charred body in waves. He’d cry out, shoot straight up into the lid above him and curse as he hit his head, coming back and only finding darkness and the damp chill of their tomb.

He debated waking his friends, if only to find some sort of comfort, but they were in the same boat, so to speak. Deceased, trapped, all because of a single flame.

**Author's Note:**

> it's not over yet


End file.
